Big Jim Callahan
by Gerald Sheagren

   Above, the moon was full and silvery, commanding a cloudless sky, filled with stars. It cast long fingers of light across the East River, twinkling like diamonds in its dark, undulating waters. Ships from every country in the world rested at anchor, riggings skeletal against the sky, hulls creaking and groaning as they rose and fell on the tide. There was an unforgiving stench in the air – of bilge water, dead mollusks and creosote, mixed unpleasantly with the feces, boiled cabbage and ripening garbage of the neighborhoods. These narrow, cobble-stoned streets were the most dangerous in the city. Here, the liquor and whores came cheap and a person’s life, even cheaper.

   Doctor Miklos Zoltan kept to the shadows, moving with the stealth of a lion at hunt. He was a tall, imposing man, his black attire – top hat, frock coat, trousers and boots – blending in perfectly with the night. His eyes were small and dark; his handlebar moustache, curling fiercely at its ends, so heavily slathered with wax that it looked as though it might shatter at the touch. He carried his amputation tools in a worn leather valise, a dagger sheathed in his boot and a small pistol nestled in his pocket. In this sector of the city, he came well prepared for any eventuality.

   Zoltan was a surgeon, more self-proclaimed than by medical decree, having learned most of what he knew or thought he knew in Budapest. Not long after reaching the American shore, he had realized that there was considerable money in the offering to supply less-than-reputable doctors and medical schools with body parts for research. Whether the donators were already dead or needed a little help in being dead, was of little consequence. All orders were placed through underground channels, with prices varying as to the importance of the organ. A heart could easily fetch a king’s ransom, while a thyroid gland was worth considerably less. And what better way to achieve his goals, thought Zoltan, than to pray on the poor and useless of the worst slum of one of the largest cities of the world. After a mere three weeks on the job, his clients began to refer to him as "The King of Hearts."

   He was currently in search of his twentieth victim. Thus far, it had been so easy and trouble free that it was laughable. He would strike when the time was right, in the dead of night, slitting his victim’s throat and removing whatever organ had been ordered – heart, liver, pancreas, spleen, intestines, or, in some cases, an eyeball or tongue. Accordingly, he was amassing a great amount of money in his bank accounts, making him richer than he had ever been in his life. Before long, he would be able to purchase a nice home in the country, complete with his very own operating room.

   Zoltan moved cautiously along, his eyes on the prowl for any of the shifty, often dangerous characters that called this unfortunate part of the city "home." Just two nights ago, he had cracked the skull of an Irishman and dragged him down an alley to remove his heart with knife and scalpel. The man had been a big, broad-shouldered b’hoy, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was drunk out of his mind, Zoltan knew that he would have stood little chance in overpowering the fellow. Whiskey, at times, was a very helpful accomplice. Only after rifling through the man’s pockets had he learned that his name was Big Jim Callahan who, of all the luck, happened to be a member of the much-feared Whyos gang! "Dangerous" was hardly the word to describe that bunch. A more apt term would be "psychopaths." But in a dark and deserted alley, along an equally deserted street, Zoltan was confident that he hadn’t been seen. As a precaution, he had quickly dismembered Big Jim, placing his arms, legs and torso into a large canvas sack that he carried and his head, hands and feet into a smaller one, tossing them both into the foul waters of the East River. It had given him such a feeling of dominance that he decided he would carve up each of his future victims, disposing of them in the same manner.

   Suddenly, three men popped out of the shadows, arraying themselves directly across Zoltan’s path. The shortest of them, barely five feet in height, was armed with a knife, another with a length of chain and the third with a blackjack that he was slapping against the palm of his hand. Scum of the earth, thought Zoltan, dressed in their battered derbies and patched clothing, the whole of them stinking like an outhouse on a hot summer’s day. The runt had a badly stitched knife slash along his right cheek, reminding the doctor of three or four centipedes, all sewn together.

   The blackjack man stepped forward, smirking, and tapping the weapon against Zoltan’s nose. "Ay, me bucko, there’s a wee bit of a toll to travel along this street."

   "Gentlemen, I carry very little money."

   "Hand it over. If it ain’t enough, ye be one sorry ass mother."

   Zoltan reached into his pocket, his fingers resting against the cold steel of his pistol. He would have to be quick or matters were going to turn very ugly.

   Just then, a noise carried from down the street; the unmistakable sound of wooden wheels scraping against cobblestones. The three men whirled as if operated by one muscle, peered into the distance and hurried off, moving as fast as their legs could carry them. Zoltan was both relieved and surprised by their hasty departure, breathing a long sigh of relief. What could put the fear of God into them? Was there a Roundsman approaching? If so, he had better play the innocent.

   As the sound of the wooden wheels drew closer, Zoltan was astonished by what he saw – a haggard, old crone, limping up the street, pushing a cart that appeared to hold every article that she had ever owned. She was perhaps seventy, possibly older, with a wrinkled, sunken-cheeked face, crow’s feet pinching her eyes into barely perceptible slits. Scraggy gray hair, greasy and all tied in knots; a thin mouth that resembled a knife slash in a piece of worn leather. She wore a floppy-brimmed slouch hat and a tattered Union tunic, worn over a filthy, ankle-length dress. Although she looked strange and unpleasant, Zoltan couldn’t imagine what could have struck such fear into the trio of robbers.

   "I owe you a debt of gratitude, old woman."

   "That you do, Doctor Zoltan." The crone gave a chicken-like cackle. "And I use the term ‘doctor’ very loosely."

   Zoltan was flabbergasted. "You ----- you know who I am?"

   The old woman offered an expansive wave of her gnarled, liver-spotted hands. "I know everyone, Zoltan. Everyone in this city and all that they do." She offered a rather wicked smile, her teeth crooked and broken and stained brown from tobacco. "As for yourself; I know what terrible deeds bring you to this neighborhood. And what you carry in that valise of yours."

   Zoltan brayed a laugh. "Humor me, old woman. What is it that I carry in my valise?"

   "Ah, a surgeon’s tools, they are; flecked with the dried blood of many a hapless soul."

   Startled, Zoltan thought for a few nervous moments, his hand slowly reaching down for the dagger in his boot. Who knew where this wretched, old hag would peddle her gossip - perhaps to the police if the fancy overtook her. But his hand stopped short when he heard an ominous click and looked up to see that the crone had produced an Army Colt, sneering and easing back its hammer with her thumb.

   "Leave the dagger in place, Doctor," she rasped, pronouncing the word "doctor" as though it was a foul morsel of food in her mouth. "Believe me; I’d have no trouble placing a bullet right ‘tween your eyes."

   Zoltan straightened up, dragging his fingers up the length of his trousers.

   "And that goes for the pistol in your pocket, as well." With one hand aiming the Colt, the old woman used the other to rummage through her cart, pulling out a small canvas bag. "Do you recognize this? If not, you should."

   Indeed he did! It was none other than the bag in which he had deposited the smaller remains of Big Jim Callahan! Sweet Mary and Joseph: what was this wretch doing with it and how had she managed to pull it from the waters of the East River?

   "You look a might tongue-tied, Miklos. She plopped the back down on the load in her cart. "I believe that there’s someone who would like to have a few words with you." Then, reaching into the bag, she pulled out the head of Big Jim Callahan by a clump of its carrot-colored hair!

   Zoltan took a quick step back, his knees turning to rubber. "No! Get that away! Get that away from me!"

   "Reunions are such an emotional time, are they not, Zoltan?"

   The head swayed by its hair, the ruddiness of the big Irishman’s face having turned to a blue-tinged pallor. There was the same pulp of a nose; the same scar snaking along its brows; the same square jowls, with its stubble of reddish-brown hair! Then, suddenly, the eyes popped open; pools of fathomless green, boring, it seemed, straight to Zoltan’s very soul! The lips curled back into a wide, gap-toothed smile.

   "Allo, Doc. Ye look a might peaked around the gills."

   Panicked, Zoltan took another step back, his hand reaching for his pistol, but stopped short when the old woman raised her own weapon.

   "I still got a nasty lump on me noggin, where ye cracked me with that paving stone. Snuck up on me like a thief in the night, ye did. And there I was; two shoots to the wind and minding me own bloody business."

   "It ----- it was nothing personal."

   "Nothing personal?" There came a long, throaty laugh, like coffee beans being crushed in a grinder. "Ye conked me a good one, drug me in an alley an’ cut me throat from ear-to-ear. Then ye fetched out me bloody ‘art and off ye went, without a care in the world. I be calling that mighty personal, mighty personal indeed."

   Zoltan’s mouth flapped like a fish out of water. How could he deny it? He was guilty as charged.

   Big Jim winked an eye. "And, now, Doc; there’s a wee matter of reprisal."

   As if on queue, the old woman ferreted around in the bag, pulling out one hand and then the other. She held them high, cackling; big, strong hands, with fingers the size of sausages, the wrists marked with dried blood from where Zoltan had severed them from the arms. The fingers flexed and stretched as though they had been awakened from a long sleep.

   "Big Jim a’ways evens the score, Doc. When I was alive, and, now, even in me death."

   Zoltan’s heart was throbbing so fast that he thought it might explode. This was insane! It ----- it wasn’t possible!

   The old crone tossed the hands to the cobblestones where they landed on their fingers like giant spiders. They scampered around for a few moments as though trying to get their bearings.

   "What say, Sadie; should I give this bloke a head start?"

   "You were a’ways a sporting man, Jim. Remember that knife fight you had with Mickey Doolin?"

   "Aye! When I tied me right hand ‘hind me back and hopped around on one foot."

   "And you still cut him every way to Sunday and let him bleed out like a stuffed pig."

   "And I cut off ‘is pug nose for a souvenir." Big Jim started to laugh so hard that a rosy flush returned to his bloodless cheeks. I’ll give ye a head start, Doc. Clear up to that corner and thanks to me good graces – a half minute more."

   Zoltan felt as though a hundred pounds had been lifted from his shoulders. Surely, he would be able to outrun two hands. He gave a giddy laugh, just thinking of the craziness of it all.

   "Off ye go, Doc," said Big Jim, as Sadie produced a pocket watch and dangled it in front of his face so he could mark the time. "I’d be moving right quick if I were you."

   Zoltan started out at a dead run, rounding the corner, his frock coat flapping out like a cape and his top hat whirling from his head into the garbage-strewn gutter. He would show that Irish bastard! And maybe a week, two weeks from now, he would return and cut out Sadie’s festering old heart. Oh, yes, indeed! He would cut it up into slimy little morsels and scatter them around for the rats! The damn thing wouldn’t be worth two cents on the market. A one-armed man stepped into his path, holding out a tin cup, and Zoltan bowled him over, sending him sprawling into the gutter.

   Zoltan ran at a breakneck speed – two, four, six blocks – until he was forced to stop in order to catch his breath. Dropping his valise, he placed his hands on his knees, gulping in great mouthfuls of air, his lungs feeling as though they were being scoured with hot sand. He was free and clear, he was dead certain of that. Big Jim was a fairy queen, he thought to himself, laughing and slapping at his knee. To show his contempt, he would target a few more of the Whyos in the near future. Hell, he might even wipe out the whole gang!

   As he was about to snatch up his valise, he detected a movement out of the corner of his eye, off in the direction he had just come. Perhaps the three thieves again or some of their cronies. Squinting into the distance, he blinked, not believing what his eyes beheld. There, right down the very center of the street, came the two hands, their fingers moving along with the casual lope of wolves on the prowl! Sweet Jesus above! As if detecting his presence, the hands split, picking up their pace and choosing opposite sides of the street!

   Zoltan tried to spur his legs to action, but they didn’t seem to want to move. Whipping out his pistol, he took aim and fired, both bullets pinging uselessly off the cobblestones. Closing one eye and bracing the weapon in both hands, he struck the hand nearest to him with the third shot, sending it flying backwards a few feet, where it landed, flopping and thrashing about. A few windows were flung open and heads popped out, cursing and sleepily questioning as to what all the hullabaloo was about. And, then, Zoltan watched in horror as the wounded hand righted itself and started toward him, limping along, minus one of its fingers!

   Whimpering in panic, Zoltan whirled, dropping his pistol and making a mad dash toward a nearby fence. He had to get away from them and quick! But was it possible, would he ever be able to? Damn you, Callahan! Damn your filthy Irish soul! As he jumped and caught the top of the fence, hoisting himself up, one of the hands managed to grab hold of his leg, squeezing with the strength of a vice! Then it started to scamper up the leg and across his back, the powerful fingers clutching at his throat and cutting off his air! He toppled backwards, onto the ground, and, as he struggled with the one hand, he saw the wounded one pick up a paving stone and raise it high over his head!

   The last he remembered was the cracking of his skull and the stickiness of warm blood.

 ©2004 Gerald Sheagren